Sunday, September 4, 2011

I stood still

I pick up the broken sticks and lay them straight.
I rearrange them in a square, as a kite, as a diamond.

I pick up grains of sand as my wet feet dry,
they hold tales long forgotten by man or any other.

I pick up the loose threads thrown away,
They talk of clothes they were made to be.

I pick up the broken glass with dried blood-
I see that violence that shattered it.

I pick up the wax from a burnt out candle-
It feels cold and waits for a day to melt away.

I pick up a torn piece of paper,
It had someone's will scribbled.

I caught a rain drop from a little cloud,
It talked about lands unknown.

I picked up an ant, it tried to run away,
I held it; It bit me and in a fury, I almost crushed it.

I caught a butterfly, it stood still.
We saw each other and I let it flutter away.

I stood still.

The Light Shines The Brightest

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